


There’s a Fine, Fine Line [the “Between Reality and Pretend” Remix]

by kiwiana



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Community: kamikazeremix, F/M, Incest, M/M, Remix, Sibling Incest, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-07
Updated: 2009-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 23:38:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2128779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwiana/pseuds/kiwiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Samhain hunt, Sam is acting... well, really weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There’s a Fine, Fine Line [the “Between Reality and Pretend” Remix]

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Are You Now or Have You Ever Been](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/67179) by lotrabc. 



> Spoilers through to episode 4.07. Title is from Avenue Q. 
> 
> A remix of "Are You Now or Have You Ever Been" by LJ user lotrabc, for the Kamikaze Remix challenge 2009.
> 
> None of the Supernatural characters belong to me, or I'd be a lot richer than I am.
> 
> Originally published on LiveJournal 2009-09-07.

Sam mumbles in his sleep. “Dean,” he whispers, and at first Dean thinks he’s woken up.

“What’s up, Sam,” he says wearily.

“Dean... fuck..."

Dean looks over and then hurriedly back at the road. Sam’s sporting a massive erection, and Dean just... didn’t need to see that. He tries to ignore Sam moaning his name; he knows it’s just coincidence. He wonders if it’s his subconscious messing with him. After all, he squashed those particular illicit feelings for his brother years ago, locked them up nice and tight and threw away the key. He realised that keeping Sam safe did  _not_  entail getting into bed with him, and that was that. Now, with angels thrown in the mix and an impending Apocalypse... well, now isn’t really the time to be re-examining anything. 

To top it all off, Sam’s been acting weird ever since they left the hunt behind; all touchy-feely, like he wants to be Dean’s girlfriend or something. It’s not like things weren’t awkward enough between them already, what with Heaven and Hell suddenly becoming key players in the forthcoming war. But now, every time Dean doesn’t... hold Sammy’s hand, or whatever he’s wanting, Sam gets this hurt look on his face like he’s been dumped on prom night. Dean doesn’t know what Sam’s deal is, but it cuts a little too close to the bone.

He’s immensely relieved when a motel appears up ahead. He pulls into the car park, taking a corner a little sharper than he’d normally like. The motion probably woke Sam, but he hurries out of the car before his brother can say anything. He’s not ready for the conversation Sam will invariably want to have; not yet.

He doubts he ever will be.

* * *

Seven hours without a break has left Dean desperate for a piss, so he grabs the bags, barks their room number at Sam, and dashes inside. He’s running the water in the shower by the time he hears the front door click and Sam flopping down on the bed.

Dean takes his time showering, hoping that whatever the hell’s up with his brother will go away, fast. The hot water is a welcome relief—he’s travel-stained and sticky, not to mention how tensed up his muscles are beneath his skin.

He finally steps out, wraps a towel around his waist and opens the door, only to find Sam on  _his_  bed—the one nearest the door. Sam’s looking at Dean with a look Dean can’t quite comprehend; if he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was lust.

“What are you doing?” he asks. It’s a question with a million more hidden inside it, like  _why are you on my bed_  and  _are you just doing this to fuck with me_  and  _how can you trust that demon bitch, whatever you’ve got going on with Ruby, it isn’t right_. Dean’s not even sure which one he means—probably all of them.

Sam just shrugs, and Dean bites back his impatience. “Take your ass back to your own bed,” he snaps, sitting down on this one—because dammit, this is  _his_  bed, and he doesn’t have the time or the inclination for Sam’s shit. 

“Don’t want to,” Sam murmurs behind him, and runs his fingers down Dean’s back. Dean tries very hard not to shiver in desire before glaring over his shoulder, a look he means to encompass  _what the fuck are you doing_  and  _you better not think this is okay, and if you do we have problems_. Unfortunately, he suspects that it looks more like  _holy fuck that’s good_  than anything, and that doesn’t bode well at all. He scrambles to find clothes, and is halfway through yanking on his boxers when he catches Sam staring—and okay, this has gone pretty far beyond a joke now.

“Do you mind?” he snaps defensively.

“No.”

Dean sighs and rubs his forehead. He doesn’t have the energy for this, and he says as much to Sam, who eyes him speculatively. 

“Touch me,” Sam whispers, leaning forward. Dean leans back just as quickly, torn between feeling a little violated and liking Sam’s nearness a little too much.

“Touch you? With what?” Dean tries for nonchalant, but it comes out high and breathy.

Sam eyes Dean’s half-exposed upper thigh; Dean shuts his legs hurriedly. He can’t figure out what the fuck’s gotten into Sam, and a year ago he would have welcomed it, but now? He doesn’t know what to think. He groans, turns off the lights and lies down, back firmly to his brother.

“Go to sleep, Sam,” he mutters. “This isn’t you.” It’s either that or shake him, and Dean thinks that if he gets close enough to shake his brother he might just— and okay, that thought needs to get shut down  _right the fuck now_. There’s no way Sammy could want this, want  _them_ ; he’s never even hinted at anything like this before, and Dean can’t quite work out what the fuck’s going on. 

He assumes it’ll take forever to get to sleep, but one minute he’s trying to work out what’s going on with his little brother, and the next the sunlight’s streaming in through the threadbare curtains.

* * *

A few hundred miles later, Dean picks a town at random and pulls in. However disconcerting motel rooms might be with his brother at the moment, it can’t be worse than the oppressive car trips; between the stony silences and Sam trying to grope him when he’s not paying attention—and what the fuck, sliding your hand along someone’s inner thigh is  _not_  the best way to point out a place to stop and eat, especially when that person’s your older brother—Dean’s getting ready to snap.

He’ll settle for getting plastered, though, and Sam is surprisingly okay with Dean’s suggestion—all right, demand—that they hit the local bar. For some unfathomable reason, Sam brings his laptop with him; okay, sure, whatever gets your rocks off, but Dean’s planning on picking up a chick or two, not Googling the night away.

They’ve been there maybe a couple of hours, and a rather inebriated blonde girl—Lacey, he thinks she said—seems to have super-glued herself to his side. It’s not as though he minds; he doesn’t exactly pick ‘em for the intellectual conversation, after all. He’s a little worried about Sam, though, tucked up in the corner with his laptop. He keeps trying to catch his brother’s eye and grinning, trying to be encouraging— _come on Sam, these girls would love a chance with you—_ and he wonders if anyone else is buying it. It doesn’t really matter, though, and Sam just looks more and more furious every time Dean tries.

He turns his attention back to Lacey, his hand resting casually on her thigh as she blathers on about some charity thing she’s working on. Dean decides that if Sam wants to be an emo little bitch, that’s his problem. Doesn’t mean Dean can’t have a bit of fun with an all-too-willing girl.

He leans in close and whispers, “We should get out of here.” She giggles and blushes, looking down in a vain attempt at modesty, and Dean takes the opportunity to glance over at his brother; a compulsion born of a lifetime of habits.  _Always look after Sammy_.

Sam’s tucking into some sort of really greasy meal. There’s sauce around his mouth and, as Dean catches his eye, he flicks his tongue out and licks around the edges. The whole thing has a distinctly sexual undertone to it—as does almost everything Sam’s done lately—and Dean can’t stop the blush that creeps up over his cheeks. Lacey looks up at him saying, “You okay?” but Dean’s already pulling her towards Sam’s table.

“Looks like you’re having a good time,” Dean tries, as Sam does something with his tongue and his finger; and Dean’s not paying attention to that at all, honestly.

“It’s good,” Sam replies, never breaking eye contact.

“Uh huh,” Dean mutters, trying not to stare. “Lacey and me are gonna take the room for a while. You cool here?”

He expects some sort of reaction from that, maybe a  _No, stay with me_  or something equally suggestive and wrong, but Sam just smiles and says, “Sure. Pick me up later?”

Dean hesitates for a minute. That’s... different from how Sam’s been acting the last couple of days, and Dean almost questions it before biting his tongue. Don’t bite the hand that feeds, and all that. Maybe he’s over it? “Don’t get into any trouble,” he starts, the same lecture he’s given Sam a hundred times, but he doesn’t get any further before Lacey drags him out the door.

Well, at least she’s eager.

* * *

Eager and into cars, as it turns out. If Sam were acting normal right now, he’d say something like  _wow, that’s your dream girl, Dean—_ but he’s not here, and there’s nothing worse than thinking of your little brother when you’re trying to get laid.

Not that he has to try very hard. He doesn’t even get the key in the ignition before she jumps him, wrestling him into the back seat as she starts shedding clothing. She’s kinky and fun, and they end up fucking twice right there in the parking lot before he drives her home.

He doesn’t think of his brother at all; doesn’t bite back Sammy’s name the second time he comes. Honestly.

* * *

For three weeks, Dean avoids alone time with his brother as much as humanly possible, given the job they do. They spend their days in public—not that it stops Sam trying to touch him, or worse,  _kiss_  him, like they’re fucking dating or something—and their nights in bars. Invariably, Dean takes home the first girl who looks at him twice while Sam sits in the corner and glowers; no more acceptance, not after the first time. Dean suspects that might have been some sort of ploy that backfired.

He tries to fight the attraction for Sam that’s rearing its head after all these years. Not only is Sammy a  _guy_ —contrary to popular belief, Dean’s never swung that way—but he’s Dean’s baby brother, for Christ’s sake. And no matter how much Sam says he wants it, Dean knows it’s just Sam’s way of... trying to make things better, or something. He doesn’t actually want to fuck his big brother, which would make anything Dean did, with intent, rape. So Dean stays as far away from Sam as possible, hoping the feelings he’s not allowed to have will get the hint and fuck off.

Dean actually considered the possibility that Sam was possessed by a siren at one point, until he remembered that they don’t possess people. It had seemed like a plausible theory, though.

The night it all comes to a head, Dean gets a blowjob from a girl called Millie. It would have progressed to sex, except that Millie very nearly vomited on the seat of the Impala (thankfully, he got her outside in time), so that ended abruptly. He stumbles into the motel room, hoping to find Sam asleep.

No such luck. He’s barely three steps inside the door when Sam leaps out of bed and grabs him, kissing him frantically and groping his crotch with something bordering on desperation. Dean can’t do anything but stand there, frozen, afraid that if he moves it’ll all be over—one way or another.

“You win, okay? God, fuck me. Do  _something_ ,” Sam growls. 

 _Oh Jesus, fuck_  Dean’s not sure he can resist that voice. “Sam?” he says quietly.

Sam looks something like exasperated as he dives in for another kiss, and this time, Dean can’t help kissing back. Their tongues mashing together desperately, until Dean’s brain finally wakes up enough to say  _no bad fuck no can’t hurt Sammy_. He pushes his little brother away before he does something they’ll both regret forever—namely, fuck his brother. They stare at each other for a moment, panting. Dean opens his mouth just as Sam starts to speak.

“What’s wrong with you?” they say together.

* * *

They call Bobby, who seems to think it’s probably some kind of mojo, or curse, that’s been laid on Sam. They take off for Bobby’s place straightaway. Dean tries to be reassuring, telling Sam that they’ll fix him right up, and Sam turns to him and says, “How do you know it’s me that’s affected?”

They yell at each other for a while, but when Sam says, “I didn’t just wake up thinking anything. We’ve  _always_  wanted each other,” Dean decides this would be a trip better taken in silence.

“Just gotta get to Bobby’s,” he mutters before turning Motorhead up as far as it’ll go. 

Sam tries to tell him about their first time in the motel that night: when he was fifteen, apparently. He says it like it’s the most natural, normal thing in the world for Dean to fuck—no, rape—his fifteen-year-old brother.

Dean sleeps in the car.

* * *

Bobby’s all understanding and helpfulness, but he still eyes the two of them like he knows there’s more to this than they’re saying; Dean sure as hell wasn’t sharing all the details. He spends far too long reading books and preparing ingredients, and why the hell he couldn’t have done that earlier Dean doesn’t know, but eventually they’re sitting around a table and Bobby’s telling them to hold hands.

Dean eyes his brother carefully, in case Sam decides to jump him—and wouldn’t that be awkward to explain—but Sam just stares steadily back and joins their hands together. There’s some purification stuff, a few spells, then it’s all over.

They wait for the results at opposite ends of the room. There’s some backbiting, some angry banter, but mostly they wait in uncomfortable silence for Bobby to tell them what’s going on. Dean spends most of it alternating between hope and fear that he’s the one who’s cursed; he can’t figure out which will hurt him more. The knowledge that Sam thinks they’re sleeping together, or that they’ve been sleeping together for years and he just can’t remember? It’s getting harder and harder to suppress the hope that Sam’s the one who’s right, and it scares the hell out of him.

In the end, it’s worse than he could have imagined.

It’s neither of them.

* * *

Bobby wants them to stay a few days, but Dean only has to glance at Sam to confirm the resounding  _no_  ringing in his own head. He hurries out to the car after the perfunctory goodbyes and waits for Sam, who for some reason has decided to linger. Dean can only hope Sam’s not grilling Bobby on whether he thinks they were sleeping together. He wouldn’t put it past his little brother.

Sam gets in the car, and Dean looks over at him. “Think that vengeful spirit gig in Washington’s still good?” Something, anything to get their minds off this.

“If it’s not, we’ll find one that is,” Sam says firmly. Finally, something they can agree on.

* * *

They spend a month chasing hunts, most of them inane salt-and-burns – anything to avoid the giant glowing elephant that’s in the room with them at all times. They get shorter, less accommodating with each other as time goes on; Dean suspects Sam’s sexually frustrated. He doesn’t say anything though, knowing it’ll lead to one more  _it must be you who’s cursed_  argument. 

So they hunt, and they fight, and they try not to touch too much. Dean ignores the growing yearning inside him to reach out and touch his little brother, stroke his hair and his jaw and... maybe it wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, being with Sammy?

That’s the point at which Dean has to remind himself that Sam doesn’t actually want this; he just thinks he does. Which means that it would, most definitely, be a terrible thing.

The night Sam gets drunk, Dean’s self-control is starting to fray. He finds himself watching Sam more than usual, studying the way he drinks his girly triple-soy-caramel-macchiato-what-the-fuck-ever with a surprisingly sensual grace and  _Jesus_ , where the hell did that thought even come from? So when they go to the bar, Dean grabs the first girl he sees and makes a huge show of flirting with her. He knows it’s cruel, but it’s for himself as much as for Sam.

Sam gets steadily more plastered as the night goes on, finally stumbling out when Dean starts kissing Charlotte in the middle of the dance floor. Dean doesn’t notice at first, and when he does look up he assumes Sam’s either gone to take a leak or to throw up. When he doesn’t show back up after two songs, though, Dean excuses himself, saying he needs to make sure his brother’s okay. He doesn’t spare Charlotte another glance as he heads towards the toilets and, when Sam’s not there, back across to the motel across the street.

Sam’s sitting in the front seat of the Impala, and it looks as though he’s mumbling to himself. Dean sighs, and has half a mind to leave him, but then again, Sam’ll probably vomit on the driver’s seat and it’s  _really hard_  to get that smell out. He groans, and opens the door.

Sam looks up at him with an expression of such earnest joy, it makes Dean’s heart clench. “You came back!” he cries, and Dean smiles tightly, trying to pull him out of the car. Unfortunately, he seems to be clinging to the upholstery.

“You’re not throwing up in my car,” Dean says sternly. “Let’s go.” He yanks Sam out by the hands and drags him towards the room, Sam keeping up a drunken litany all the while. At least he’s being reasonably quiet—thank God, or whoever, for small mercies.

“’Member when I turned sixteen?” Sam says suddenly.

“Yeah, Sam,” he sighs. He can see where this is going, and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He settles for picking up his pace slightly, hoping to get Sam tucked into bed—the sooner he slept, the sooner he’d sober up.

“And Dad almost walked in on you sucking me?”

Dean falters, the mental image causing him physical pain as need flares within him. “He almost caught you drinking Jack, Sam,” he snaps. “That was all.”

“No,” Sam argues. He tries to pull away, but Dean’s a lot more coordinated right now.

“Be still!” he says firmly, hoping Sam will listen.

They finally get to the room, and Dean wrestles Sam into his bed. He’s there for maybe three and a half seconds before Sam starts in.

“Wanna touch you,” he whimpers, crawling across the bed to where Dean’s standing looking down at him, and  _fuck_ , it’s not fair for him to sound so desperate. Dean shoves him back, harder than he intended, hoping it’ll clear both their heads. It doesn’t work, and that’s when Dean snaps.

“I’ve had enough of this, Sam. I am not some sick asshole that fucks his brother. I am  _not_ ,” he yells, the  _no matter how badly I want to_  echoing hollow and empty inside his head. And still Sam comes toward him, arm outstretched, yearning in his face, so Dean does the only thing he can think of; he throws a punch.

Sam doesn’t fall over—which is amazing, considering his lack of sobriety—but he does stare at Dean as though he just drowned Sam’s puppy. Dean has one second where he thinks he might actually break down and cry before he walks out the door, slamming it behind him.

He doesn’t come back.

* * *

It hurts like hell that Sam doesn’t call, try to find out where he is, but to be fair, he probably wouldn’t have answered anyway. He hangs out in the next town over, ready to head back at a moment’s notice. The truth is the constant proximity to Sam, who is so desperate for him, is wearing down his resolve; he knows it’s only a matter of time before he gives in. The consequences of that... well, it could be worse than Stanford had been, which was the darkest period in Dean’s life. Hell notwithstanding.

It’s four days before Dean breaks and calls Sam. The first time he doesn’t answer, Dean assumes he’s pissed—and probably has fair reason to be. But when he still doesn’t pick up or return his calls by that night, Dean moves from tolerant to worried to mad really fast.

The next morning, he leaves a message telling Sam he’s twenty minutes from a crossroads. Sam’s knocking on the door in just under fifteen, and Dean does the only thing he can think of.

He kisses his brother.

Sam tastes like butterscotch and whiskey and something uniquely  _Sam_ , and Dean thinks he could get used to the taste in a hell of a hurry. It takes him a good thirty seconds to realise that Sam isn’t responding, and he immediately worries that he got it wrong. He pulls away, breathing heavily, and Sam’s just staring at him, wide-eyed.

“What is this?” Sam whispers finally, and his lips are honest-to-God trembling. The sight strengthens Dean’s resolve that this is the right thing to do.

“I remember,” he answers firmly. If this is what Sammy wants, what Sammy needs, then he can do this without losing control. He leans in for another kiss, softer this time.

“Need to feel you again,” he whispers as they part. It’s the truth—he can’t believe he’s gone this long without this – but at the same time, there’s a part of his brain trying to think of appropriately convincing things to say.

“Not tonight. I want  _you_  to fuck  _me_ ,” Sam murmurs against his lips, and Dean freezes—because oh, shit, he hadn’t been expecting that. It cuts a little too close to the  _no bad fuck no_  wound, the one that’s still so fresh.

“I’ll give it to you then. Just like the first time, right?” Sam smiles at him, and Dean nearly swoons in relief.

“Yeah. Just like that,” he grins back.

“Where?” Sam murmurs, and Dean’s confused. There are only so many places a dick can go... right?

“Where what?” he says quickly.

“Tell me where we first fucked,” Sam demands.

 _Oh, fuck_. Dean’s got absolutely no clue. “Sam, come on,” he tries, and can actually see Sam’s hope get crushed as he realises.

“The state. Anything,” Sam tries, still hoping, but Dean can tell he knows. He sighs, and Sam glares at him.

“You were just gonna lie back and think of England, huh?” he snaps.

“I can get used to it,” Dean replies, but his voice is flat—knowing he said the wrong thing, but unable to find the right words to fix this. He could have said  _I want this, I always have_ , but Sam wouldn’t believe him now. Sammy’s about to leave again, only this time, it’s for good. He tries, anyway.

“Stay? It won’t happen again.”

“No,” Sam says firmly, walking out.

The click of the door is disturbingly loud in the sudden silence.

* * *

This time, he only lasts three hours before heading to the motel they last stayed at together. He tries calling Sam’s cell all the way, but it goes straight to voicemail every time.

There’s a car he recognises in the parking lot—Ruby’s. With a curse, he grabs a shotgun out of the trunk and bursts into the room. The sight that meets his eyes makes him want to vomit; that bitch has him strewn across a table with blood and knife cuts everywhere. She’s muttering something in Latin, and Dean shoots at her just as she’s bringing her knife down towards Sam’s throat.

“Stay the hell away from him, you bitch!” he yells, shooting again before hurrying over to Sam. He’s shocked when he realises his brother’s unrestrained.

“What did you do?” he demands, because only Sam could be this fucking stupid. Sam gasps.

“She has to finish it, Dean! One little cut,” he says imploringly. Dean shakes his head.

“She goes for that knife and I go for mine,” he says firmly before Ruby grabs him from behind, spins him round, and punches him. He drives the butt of the shotgun into her temple before reaching for the demon-killing knife; the one she gave them. Inexplicably, she smiles.

“Better luck next time, Dean-o,” she laughs. Dean turns just in time to see Sam draw the ceremonial knife Ruby had been using across his own throat. There’s a blinding flash of white light and Dean tries to grope his way through it, trying to get to his brother. The light clears, and Dean drops to his knees beside Sam just as he bolts upright.

“I remember,” Sam gasps before passing out cold.

* * *

Sam was the one who was cursed, after all. Dean watches helplessly from the sidelines as he tries to fit his life back together, tries to reconcile a whole past that didn’t exist with the one that does. He watches as Sam begins to reach out and touch before remembering it wasn’t real, and he thinks maybe a bit more touching wouldn’t be such a terrible thing.

They check out of the motel a couple of days later. Dean comes back from the reception area to find Sam all packed and ready to go, staring at the wall with an indefinable expression on his face. When he sees Dean, he attempts a smile. “I’ll take these to the car,” he offers, but Dean stops him with a hand on his chest.

“Remember when you got drunk in that haunted hotel?” he asks.

“Kinda hard to forget,” Sam replies carefully. “What’s that—”

Dean stops him with a kiss; soft, gentle and inexpressibly perfect. He wonders for a moment if it’s how Sam remembers it, then finds he doesn’t care. It’s  _real_ , and therefore much, much better. 

“That’s what I wanted to do then,” Dean says quietly. Sam smiles, and leans down to kiss him again.

It isn’t everything, not yet, but it’s a start.


End file.
